Evangelism
by Takita
Summary: Angel brings her lifelong battle with Devil to the Mishima Zaibatsu, infiltrating the corporation headquarters and braving the world of sex, scandal, and horror within it to try and fulfil her mission to save Kazuya's soul.
1. Prologue

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Evangelism

Disclaimer: Tekken and all associated characters are the property of Namco.

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Warnings: Contains scenes of sex, violence, rape, and strong language.

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Prologue

New England, 1692

A pair of feet splash clumsily through the icy water and, slipping on wet rocks, the young girl gropes at the dirt with frantic fingers, clambering up the hill. Her heart thumps in her chest like a hammer pounding on an anvil. Looking fearfully over her shoulder, she can hear the whoops and cries of her pursuers on the far side of the river. They are gaining on her. Urged on by her terror, she struggles to her feet, picking up her filthy, trailing skirts and hurries between the trees. The low, setting sun sends long, dark shadows across the uneven ground, disguising stones and roots, causing the girl to come crashing to the ground on many occasions. Now she can hear their taunts and laughter closer, and the splashing of their boots in the fast-flowing water behind her. Her nails dig into the rough bark of a tree as she reaches out to steady herself, forcing her aching limbs to continue. She can catch the warm slash of light through the trees ahead, sparkling at her like the last desperate strands of hope that give her the strength to maintain her flight. Driving on, she breaks from the woodland and the gravel crunches under her throbbing feet as she throws herself towards the parish, and towards her last hope. As her fists impact upon the hard wood of the door, pleading for it to open, the cries behind her intensify. She has been sighted, and the enemies shall be upon her soon.

With a last, despairing burst of strength, she shoves the door open, tumbling after it and landing hard on the dusty, holy floor. "Father!" she chokes, striving to get back on her feet. "Fa… father!" she cries hopelessly, tears and dust catching in her throat, as she stumbles her way forlornly towards the altar. Her pleas are dwarfed by the laughter of her hunters as they fill the room behind her. Like thunder rumbling through dark storm clouds, their taunts echo over her head, filling the rafters with their cruelty. Weeping bitterly, she collapses before the altar, exhausted, no longer able to raise her voice above a whisper. "Father…" she whimpers softly, digging her nails into the wooden pew beside her, clinging to it fearfully, heedless of the splinters burying themselves in her fingers.

"He's not going to save you!" a voice snarls at her. "No one will save a cursed little brat like you!" he taunts, tearing her to her feet by her hair. Laughter ripples through the group at the scream she lets out. "Filthy little witch's child," the boy barks, tossing her the floor and spitting on her. 

Crawling wretchedly across the floor, she tries to drag herself away from them as the word spreads through the older children. "Witch! Witch! Witch!" they whisper at first, their volume rising, as they crowd in on her, finding amusement in their suffering. "**Witch! Witch! Witch!**" they shout, kicking at her and spitting their venomous words down upon her.

"Your mother was a filthy whore, and so are you!" they accuse her.

"My father is out of business because of your curse, you wicked whore!"

"Spawn of Satan!"

"I say we skin the pathetic rabbit," one boy suggests, and the girl's eyes widen in horror at the flash of steel before them.

"No! We should hang her like we hanged her Witch-Mother!"

"Why not burn her, so that nothing is left of her wickedness," another cries, swinging the burning candles down from the altar and letting the flames dance tortuously in front of her eyes, before carelessly casting the fire upon the floor.

"I think she should be punished first," the boy with the knife says, grabbing her around the throat and pushing up against the altar. Choking her with one hand, he draws the blade down her cheek, delighting in the trickle of blood and the frightened whimper she emits. Pressing the knife to her throat, he rips at her filthy clothing, leaving her painfully exposed to the roving eyes of her tormentors.

"Ha!" another boy cheers. "Fuck her like the whore she is!"

The knife-holder sneers over his shoulder at his partner in crime, grabbing his victim's budding breast in his fist and mashing his lips forcefully against hers. She lets out a tiny squeal and wriggles weakly beneath his touch, fear causing the bile to rise in her throat as he reaches to undo his pants, and rams his hardness roughly against her. A great blast of agony explodes upwards through her stomach as her forces himself inside, smashing her organs against each other. Her head rolls back and she stares blindly up at the ornately decorated ceiling of the church, as with each thrust, a new and more terrible ripple of pain courses through her body. Her back is pounded against the hard stone of the altar again and again, for what seems like an eternity to the poor child. The hot, savage breath of the boy dampens her shoulder with its alcohol-laden stench, and his roving hand tears at her skin with its clawed and filthy nails, as the knife digs into the soft flesh beneath her chin.

"Hell, the church is on fire!" the boy's laughing companions cry as he finishes his business, too drunk to take it very seriously.

"Better get out of here," he chuckles, pulling himself away from the girl, as her broken body slides limply to the ground.

"But first," he snarls, crouching down beside her, and gripping her jaw to force her face towards his. He kisses her violently, shoving his tongue into her unresisting mouth. "Don't want the little witch spreading her wickedness, do we?" he whispers into her ear, as he trails the blade lazily down her body, plunging it deep into her belly. She bucks wildly upon the floor, screaming terribly as he twists the knife and pulls it from her guts, blood pooling on her stomach and trickling down her side to run in the cracks on the cold floor.

As the echo of the great doors slamming shut singles the monsters' departure, the girl rolls her head weakly to the side and lifts her eyes to look up at Jesus, hung on the cross above the altar. No longer lit directly by the candles, his features are hidden in constantly flickering shadows. Struggling to draw breath, the girl stares up at the darkened face of the lord. Her body is cold and trying to shiver, despite the heat of the encroaching blaze and the warm blood flowing at her neck and across her belly, spilling between her legs and spreading over the stone she lies upon. Darkness and shadows creep closer around the edges of her vision, and she labours to keep her focus.

"Lord…" she whispers almost inaudibly, her last breath soft and weak. "Please… save me."

And the lord she prays to does listen. Jesus lifts his eyes to meet her gaze, the deep red of his gaze burning into her from the shadows of his face. She watches as he moves upon his cross, dark wings unfurling behind him, and he steps down, leaving his eternal crucifixion to tower above her, the shadows thrilling over his powerful muscles, emphasising his impressive physique. She stares up at him, sunk into an unnatural calmness that melts away her fear and trepidation.

"I will save you," he tells her, and his voice comes to her not from his lips, but from within her mind. "Just promise me your soul, and you will be saved," he professes, his voice silky and warm, soothing her, and she believes him.

"I promise…" she begins to commit, and the smile spreads across my brother's face.

"You would sacrifice your seat in heaven, so that you might live another day of your tortured life?" I ask the child, emerging from the flames that have encircled her. Her eyes wander slowly to look upon me, widening in awe as they find their target. 

My brother looks upon me with disgust, and I feel his gaze burning into me like the blade of a dagger. "Do not listen to her treachery, she will bring you only death," he hisses at the dying child. "All she says are lies."

"It is he who lies to you, child," I soothe her, brushing my fingers against her damp cheek. 

My demon half reaches for her, and I block his arm. "Do not believe what she says," he growls at the frightened girl, and the wickedness sparks in his eyes.

"Fear not the devil, for your path lies with God," I whisper to her, brushing her eyes gently shut, freeing her from his clutches. As she dies, my brother lets out an evil cry, striking at me, and sending me flying back into the burning pews, as he takes off, anger boiling in his every vein.

This is how it has been since the end of the Great War of Heaven. I remember before then, the love that was my brother, my other half, my heart. But it was not enough for him, and he opposed the lord, betrayed my trust, and was cast out. Since that time, he and his kind have roamed the earth, preying on the suffering and weak, to obtain the souls that they so desire. And as long as they do, I will be there to stop them, for I am an ultimate evangelist. I am an angel.


	2. Interview with a devil

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Interview with a devil

Tokyo, spring 1995

The Mishima Zaibatsu headquarters stands as one of the most impressive buildings in the city. Built without the caution usually maintained by Japanese architects, it towers at a height more fitting of New York than Tokyo. Some say that this is a sign of the arrogance of the organisation, believing itself to be more powerful than God, and challenging the might of the quakes that often move Japan. So far, this risk has paid off, and the building has remained standing, but times change, and one day it will fall.

For now though, the building casts its dark shadow over the city, a constant reminder of the immense power of the Zaibatsu. The headquarters' interior is even more magnificent, expensive silk covering the walls and underfoot lighting in all the public areas. Deep, plush carpets and rich mahogany desks are present in all the executive offices, and even the bathroom taps are gold-plated.

And this is where I am, standing before the vast mirror in the fiftieth floor ladies room, scrutinising my reflection in the glass. Centuries of practice have made me a master of disguise. The only form of an angel that people recognise is the form that the Herald Angels took, with white wings and glowing halo. I have many forms though, the one I use now being human guise. This is how the Guardians appear most commonly, and is rarely noticed. 

I examine the harsh bun my hair is twisted in to, only a couple of well-positioned tendrils free to frame my face. I slick gloss over my lips and give my lashes another layer of mascara. I've grown used to having to disguise myself over time, learning how to change my voice, my look, and my body language in order to manipulate those around me.

I hear the door open behind me, and the sharp scent of strong perfume fills my nostrils. With heels clicking over the tiled floor, the woman approaches me, standing intimately close, leaning over the sink so that her cleavage is well exposed to me in her reflection. "Mmmm…" she breathes heavily, arching her head back and running blood red talons over her throat. "It's verrry hot in here, don't you think?" She looks at me, swiping her tongue over her lips as our eyes meet.

"It is a little hot," I say matter-of-factly, turning back to face the mirror. "Perhaps the air conditioning is malfunctioning."

She gives a sudden laugh at my response, throwing her head back and tossing her brown bob lightly. "Yes! Perhaps it is," she says, slinking her arm around my shoulders and pressing herself against my back. "You're here for the security management position? I _do_ hope you get it," she whispers into my ear, her breath warm against my cheek, and her fingers tickling up and down my arm.

"So do I, Miss…?" I reply, turning to face her, not intimidated by the fact that she refuses to move away from me. I meet her bright hazel eyes again, unflinching. I know the games these kinds of people play.

"Williams," she smiles at me. "Anna Williams, PR management." Anna takes a step back at this point, and offers her hand, the delicate fingers burdened by overly polished nails. "And you are?"

"Angelica Featherstone," I inform her, taking her hand in mine, stroking the soft skin gently with my fingertips.

"Well, Angelica," she drawls, my name slipping from her tongue like warm honey, "I should warn you, Mr. Chaolan is interested in little other than how willing you are to put out." She smiles wickedly at this, licking her plump red lips.

"I'm sure I can _handle_ Mr. Chaolan quite adequately," I tell her, returning the smile. 

At this she gives another sharp laugh. "I think you're going to fit in very well here," Anna says, turning and making her way back out of the room, her hips swaying seductively.

As the door slips closed behind her, I flick the top button of my blouse open, give my face another once over, and make my way out.

I catch sight of Anna again as the assistant shows me to my interview. This time she's treating an accountant to her flirtatiousness, perching on the edge of his desk and rubbing her foot up his leg. The assistant leads me into a spacious outer office with wide windows and a large pot plant in the corner. "Go on through," she directs me bluntly, gesturing to the large oak wood door that doesn't quite fit with the modern surroundings. She turns her back on me, adjusting the hem of her Armani skirt and sitting back at her desk. 

The primal energy I can feel flowing throughout the building has a profound effect on all the employees, each one becoming consumed with selfishness and greed, sexual and territorial tensions filling the atmosphere. The feeling of this electricity intensifies the further up the building I move and it envelops the more senior staff almost entirely. This is what my brother's presence does to people. It does not make them evil, but evokes the darkness that is present in all humans. This darkness is fully awake in the man I now encounter.

As I step through the door my heels sink into rich, deep carpet, and the reek of cologne irritates my nose. The room is vast, with massive windows reaching from floor to ceiling, equally long velvet drapes hanging beside them. A large, solid desk sits at the far end of the room, accompanied by an expensive leather chair. In front of that lie a pair of sofas with a glass coffee table between them and it is on one of these sofas that a young silver-haired devil sprawls, a phone clamped to his ear. He slides his eyes over me as I enter and taps the sofa beside him, continuing to bark insults into the receiver.

"I don't give a fucking shit how long you've been in business, Gordo. You can't keep up with the payments, so we're finished with you. There is no room for losers here," he spits his words at the caller, his voice dripping with venom. "Ha! Take it up with Mishima if you like, but I think you will find my brother to be far less hospitable than I am." 

Almost as soon as he's slammed the phone down the buzzer sounds. "There is a call from Detective Wulong on line one, sir," the assistant honks out of the speaker. 

"Tell him to fuck off, you stupid bitch. I'm busy!" Chaolan snarls at her. It seems his foul temper is not reserved purely for adversaries. "You don't look like someone who works in security," he informs me, now turning his attention fully in my direction. "Sit down," he commands, again indicating the space next to him.

"Looks can be deceiving," I say, ignoring his gesture and sitting confidently opposite him, crossing my legs and looking around the room.

He gives a throaty chuckle and leans back in his seat, inspecting me thoroughly. His eyes linger on the length of my legs, the hint of my cleavage, and the amount of thigh left exposed by the split in my skirt. "Well, you would appear to be more than qualified for the position, Miss…" he glances at a file on the coffee table, "Featherstone. What I really need to assess is how well you would fit in with the Mishima Zaibatsu's culture. We need a particular type of person for this job."

"I'm sure I'll have no problem fitting in here, Mr. Chaolan," I tell him, meeting his gaze. After all, my brother and I are one and the same. I am at home in his influence, in his arms. I am more familiar with his atmosphere than any of these humans here.

"Please, call me Lee," he smiles, and I can feel the insincerity in him as though it were a blazing fire. People believe that humans become evil when they lose their soul, but it is quite possible for them to be evil without the influence of demons. I return his smile. "So, Angelica, can I ask you…" he leans towards me as though confiding in me, "Just how angelic are you?" 

I also lean forwards, so that our faces are nearly touching and I eye his throat and chest, pretending to examine the expensive silk of his shirt in thought, before raising my eyes to look directly at him. "My panties are as white as snow," I say, smiling wickedly. "You wanna take a look?"

Lee Chaolan's lips curl back from his teeth to form a hideous grin at this and just as his hand reaches to clasp the back of my head, the person I could hear approaching slams their fist repeatedly on the door. "Open up right now, Chaolan!" a gruff male voice demands. 

"Damn it," Lee mutters as the door bursts open and an angry Chinese cop storms in. Lee stands, glaring angrily as the detective marches right up to him and grabs hold of his shirt. 

"Don't think I'm going to roll over and play dead, Chaolan. You can't pay me off like you did Fury!" the cop shouts, shoving Lee roughly.

Lee merely looks down his nose at the police officer. "If I were you, I'd take your hands off me," he sneers. "This shirt costs more than you make in a month." As the detective is about to respond, Lee interrupts him. "I'd like you to meet my new chief of security, Miss Angelica Featherstone." The cop looks me up and down curtly, as Lee takes my arm and steers me past him whispering loudly in my ear, "It will be your job to make sure that disruptive characters like him do not manage to get into the building." He gives the detective a look as if he were observing a piece of rotting meat. "I'm afraid that we shall have to continue this meeting at another time, angel, but talk to my assistant and she'll get you sorted out," he says more loudly, running his hand slyly over my bottom as he directs me to the door.


	3. The storm rages

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The storm rages

I sit comfortably, flipping through the files on security personnel whilst the young human resources intern waits patiently, perched nervously on the edge of his chair. His eyes constantly flicker around the room, taking in the furnishings, the plants and the babbling water ornament on the desk. The clean tiles on the floor, the light, cool breeze from the open window, and the various pieces of artwork placed throughout my office clearly come as a shock to him, contrasting powerfully with the overtly rich, dark appearance of the rest of the building. "They are the Greek gods, Daphne and Apollo," I inform him, referring to one particular statue his eyes return to many times, studying the frozen figures.

"Oh," he responds, shifting uncomfortably. "And that one?" he nods towards another piece.

"That is a replica of the Winged Victory of Samothrace. The original is in the Louvre, and is much larger."

"Oh," he replies again. "Where's her head?"

I smile wryly. "It has been lost," I say, glancing at myself in the reflective surface of the desk. "I shall take him, her, him, and him," I decide, placing the relevant files on the marble tabletop. "The rest are unsuitable." I place the remaining files in a separate pile. He picks up my chosen files and frowns slightly. "Is there a problem?"

He looks up, meeting my eyes for an instance before again shifting his gaze to the rest of the room. "It's just that you turned down many of the people with more experience or qualifications," he mumbles in explanation.

"I want a particular kind of person for these positions. Now, I shall also be requiring some people who have experience with laser defence systems, motion trackers, and radio scramblers," I say, standing to indicate that the meeting is over.

Ah, yes," he mutters, scrabbling for his things quickly and clumsily.

"Thank you, Jiro," I say, holding the door open for him, and he turns and stares at me for a moment, before regaining his composure. He flashes me a surprised smile as he hurries out. 

"Not a problem!" he says. "I'll look up those other files right away," he calls over his shoulder, as he hurries past my secretary, who looks up curiously.

"Is that your last meeting for today, Miss Featherstone?" she asks.

"Yes, thank you, Haruko. You can go early," I smile at her.

She blinks at me in confusion. "I don't understand," she whispers, a look of fear sweeping over her features. "Did I do something wrong?"

I give a friendly laugh. "No, not at all. It's just that there is nothing left for you to do today."

"But…"

"Haruko, please. I'm just going to be looking over some details. Go home and relax," I try smiling at her again, but she still looks upset.

"Can't I get you some tea or something?" she asks, a hint of panic in her voice.

I give a weary sigh. "Very well, and then you will leave," I say, more sternly.

"Yes, Miss Featherstone."

I've barely reached my desk when she's knocking politely at the door and bringing me hot green tea, bowing and asking again if there is anything she can do for me. "You can go home. I want you well rested, as I think we shall be having a busy day tomorrow," I tell her, and she looks at me puzzled, but I refuse to say anymore on the subject, and wave my hand in the direction of the door, showing that she should leave.

I stand and walk over to the window as she shuts the door quietly behind her, stretching my arms over my head, weary from a day dealing with people who are frightened of everyone and everything. Once I'm sure she's gone, I make my own way out of the office, but rather than head down, I take the stairs up. I didn't need the building schematics I have access to, to tell me that would be where I would find my brother's host. I can feel the force of his presence from miles away, calling to me like freedom cries out to a caged animal. I can hear his breath moving through the passages of this place, and see his touch on those who have encountered him. He knows I am coming.

As I open the door to the roof, the wind immediately catches at my hair and clothing, tugging at them, forcing itself roughly against my skin, pulling the tears from my eyes. I take a deep inhalation, bringing the elements around me, creating a cocoon in which I can move with ease across the storm-ravaged plateau. The wind hears my voice and no longer troubles me. I stand at the corner of the rooftop, looking out across the city, an endless sea of neon, and the sky filled with the warm, orange glow of streetlights. Even without the storm clouds, the stars would still be hidden.

Lightning rips the sky apart, and to the west, I can sense a great strength rising, as the monstrous clouds billow from the horizon, flooding and darkening the sky, crackling with energy. The sun has only recently plunged out of sight, but already, the darkness consumes everything, and thunder rumbles through the night like an angry giant. I look out to the west, searching for what it is that I can sense. 

It is a myth that those who sell their soul to the devil are evil. Angels, even the fallen ones, detest impurity. It is the very brightest, most divine souls that dazzle us. Their light reaches out to us, and we are drawn to their flashing, sparkling rarity, as a flower's face is drawn to the sun. It is this wonder that my brother wishes to possess. He does not understand that a soul is most beautiful when it is free.

Turning, I meet his steady gaze, and am taken aback by the severity of his appearance. The figure stands across the roof from me, his dark eyes hooded beneath thick, fearsome brows, and his coarse black hair sweeps back in a dramatic widow's peak, leaving his striking face exposed. His sculpted features are strong and hard, as though carved in stone, and the expensive tailoring he wears cannot disguise his muscular physique. We watch each other, both of us isolated from the storm, as though existing in a different world. I step towards him and he does the same, until we are barely a metre apart, his eyes never leaving mine. His gaze is black and powerful, and I can feel the energy within him. Even without my brother's spirit flowing through his veins, he possesses a great strength, balanced by the great sorrow he carries in his heart. My brother's promises have done nothing to heal this.

"You know who I am," I say.

"You are the Angel," Kazuya replies. He speaks in a voice like daybreak, the tones shattering the din of the storm as the sun's rays shatter the darkness at dawn, throbbing through my body. As I reveal my angel form, I can feel his need to reach out to me. He looks upon me with the eyes of one who has found nothing but pain in his own reality and longs for the peace of another world.

"And you know why I am here," I tell him, breathing in his warm, rich mulled wine scent, unmarred by the squall around us. I look into his eyes, the sadness pooled there bringing me comfort, knowing one that suffers as I have suffered since my other half betrayed me so completely. I can see him moving beneath the surface, winding himself throughout this man, clinging to his life, his soul, forsaking my own heart.

"You will fail," he sighs, his voice a strange mix of bitterness and mocking.

"So will you," I reply, my stare becoming fierce, driving my message into the accursed demon that would pray on a person's suffering, angry both at his selfishness and his disloyalty. Lightning burns the sky and a crack of thunder rolls through the heavens, drowning out the howl of the wind. Raising my eyes, I look to the west again, and when I look back I see that his eyes have also turned in that direction. "You can sense it too…" I murmur, and he returns his gaze to me.

"Go," he commands, and without thought I obey, taking flight in the terrible wind, flying into the heart of the storm.

The wind rips at my feathers, its fists slamming at me, trying to bat me off course, but these wings have had since the beginning of time to strengthen, and no earthly wind shall move me from my path. Rain floods down from the skies, whipped into frenzy by the fierce gusts that rage forth form the dark mass of clouds billowing on the horizon. The air is heavy with electricity. I feel it crackle around me, numbing the senses. All the time, the feeling of this wicked presence intensifies. I can hear the voices of angels above me, crying out at the ferocity of the storm, pained by what they can sense. Their song is one of torture and malady, a diseased mind, a nefarious soul. I call back to them, share their song, and fly on, nearing my goal.

As the city falls away, it is the wilderness that suffers the brunt of the tempest. The trees and plant life are battered ferociously, and the earth is softened and warped by the pounding of the rain. As I alight on an open mesa, the wind's howling reaches its crescendo and the clouds are at their thickest, rippling in the sky over my head. A fearsome spear of lightning forks across the sky, as I stare over the precipice. The rain plunges into the darkness, slicking the rocky cliff walls, and pounding on the monstrous fist that grips at the rock, pulling its owner up from the abyss, and I move out of sight, watching with some interest and horror the man that emerges from the blackness. He stands tall against the storm, his body firm and strong, the tattered Gi he wears showing the powerful muscles from which he is chiselled. His face is harsh, the features strong like his son's, but weathered by time, and untempered by the softness of emotions. His eyes are cold as stone.


	4. Contemplation

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Contemplation

The little spider spins its web silently in the rafters, its black back showing a tiny reflection of the flame that flickers far below it, the weak light sparkling along the lengths of fine silk which span the corner. The spider's beady eyes shine like black pearls imbedded in its head, observing the dark scene below, and sensing danger, it pulls itself up into the shadows, hiding in cracks of the ceiling.

Another set of eyes exists in the dojo, but Kazuya's gaze is black and fathomless, endless depths of thought swirling beneath his heavy brow, as he stares down the flame of the candle, as though he could read the language of its constant movement. The flame dances for the man who watches it, growing and reaching for the heavens as the red wax melts away beneath it, thick droplets of blood that roll down the candle and pool in the bowl of ebony that lifts it from the ground. As the fire writhes, the shadows follow suit, stretching themselves across the walls one moment, shrinking the next, cowering from Kazuya's fearsome silhouette, rising behind his seated form, dominating the painted silk of the ancient blind that divides the room. The warriors that adorn the barrier seem to cry and declare war on the figure that invades their territory, the shifting of the light giving their images life.

He gazes unheeding into the fire, lost in the turbulence of his own mind. Unconsciously his fingers trace the outline of the vivid scar that defiles his torso, the wicked injury marring the smoothness of his skin, its jagged, torn, roughness reaching from his collar bone to mid stomach, a constant reminder of his past.

The dancing warriors stop, and the flame stands still as Kazuya's eyes close, and he draws a deep breath. For a moment, time seems to stand still, as his lids slowly lift, and a third eye opens on his forehead. The fiery red of this new set of eyes gives the flame new strength, as it shudders and sparks, sending a wild rippling through the shadows, and the purple aura of malevolence lifts up from the seated Kazuya. He bows his head at the release, his own features restored. 

The smoky wickedness drifts outwards, filling the room, seeping into the cracks, darkening the shadows. "You should have sent her away," the voice whispers, echoing in Kazuya's ears, tickling at his neck, breathing into his lungs, filling his mind. Heavy feet pad across the hard wood floor behind Kazuya, hidden by the silk blind, and he stands, looking only at his own shadow, spread across the barrier.

"She cannot defeat you," Kazuya addresses his shadow.

"No…" the voice hisses. "But she is… a distraction for you."

"You cannot kill her?" Kazuya asks, his voice cold and harsh, his eyes burning into the silk, irritated by the way the demon hides itself from him, when it knows his every thought.

The air shifts as the demon moves uneasily, coldness seeping over the floor from beneath the blind. "She is spirit, as I am. She cannot be killed."

Kazuya narrows his eyes, thinking. "She is a powerful fighter."

"She will not support you as I do," the voice growls.

"I will keep her close," Kazuya tells his demon, turning his back on it.

"That is a mistake. You do not need her."

"I have made my decision."

"Someone approaches," devil whispers, winding himself back around his host, taking refuge within.

Kazuya turns towards the door as footsteps are heard approaching. "Hai!" he responds as a sharp rap on the door signals that the visitor has reached their destination. 

The door opens and Lee Chaolan enters closing it firmly behind him. "Oniisama, shitsurei shimasu," he says, before coming to stand before his brother.

"Lee," Kazuya says simply, glaring harshly at his adopted sibling.

"The new head of security, Angelica Featherstone, has brought… unpleasant news, regarding our father," Lee pauses for a moment, a nasty scowl crossing his face as he mentions his father. He looks hard at his brother, trying to determine his reaction, but Kazuya's expression reminds stoic. "It seems he survived the fall from the cliff, and has now returned to the city," Lee spits his words out, filling them with as much venom as is humanly possible. 

"I see…" Kazuya replies, turning his back upon his brother and folding his arms across his chest.

"You're not surprised?" Lee questions, barely resisting the urge to step closer to his brother.

"No…" Kazuya replies simply, sinking deep into thought.

And so the two brothers remain for a time, each silent in their own thoughts, both complete opposites and both exactly alike, in almost every way. The candlelight sends fiery ripples of light through the silver hair of the younger man, and a streak of warmth along the harsh, structured black peak of the other. One brother fights to keep the fierce, volatile emotions within him contained, the other is comfortable to allow the anger to bubble deep within, no ripple of emotion appearing on the surface. One desires connection, longing to be allowed access to the other's mind, his thoughts, his opinions, or even just the sound of his voice, whilst the other is content to remain distant, finding some momentary semblance of peace in solitude. The younger man is painfully loyal, clinging to the recollection of their shared past, understanding why it is that his brother is so plagued, wishing to be accepted as an ally, and not a part of that diseased history, but the older man barely heeds the presence of his sibling. He wishes to detach himself from his past, to destroy it, and he will seek council only with the whispering in his head.

Lee draws his fingers shakily though his hair, agitated, waiting impatiently for his brother's response. He scowls impetuously at Kazuya's back, trying to peer over his shoulder, to catch a glimpse of his expression. Kazuya's lips move with silent words, his gaze directed into space, his thoughts focused internally. Lee crosses and uncrosses is arms, glancing around the darkened dojo, opening his mouth to speak occasionally, but stopping himself before he makes a sound, not wishing to anger his brother.

After some time, Kazuya raises his head. "Tekken," he says, before turning to again face Lee, who frowns at him. "I shall hold a second tournament," Kazuya explains, and Lee raises his eyebrows in understanding.

"Very well, my brother. I shall have PR make an announcement, and I will begin preparations at once. What prize do you wish to offer?"

"The prize shall be one thousand times that of the first tournament," Kazuya declares, and Lee only just manages to suppress a gasp.

"Are you sure?" he asks, without thinking. Kazuya's eyes snap to glare fiercely at his brother, who stares back into his dark eyes. "Of course. One thousand times that of the first tournament," Lee says, turning to leave.

"Lee," Kazuya stops him, and Lee turns to face him again, surprised that his brother wishes any more of him. "Send Ms Featherstone to see me."

"But…" Lee begins, but is cut off as Kazuya plunges his fist into his stomach, knocking him to the ground with his powerful and unexpected blow.

  
"You will not argue with me!" Kazuya barks at him, his eyes blazing, and his face contorted with anger. Lee stares up at his brother towering above him, shocked, as always by the speed at which his demeanour changes.

"Hai, Oniisama!" he snarls at him, getting to his feet, ignoring the pain he is in. Kazuya's glare remains fixed on Lee as he makes his way out of the room without further complaint. 

Outside, Lee leans back against the wall for a second, breathing deeply. "He's getting worse than the old man," he mumbles under his breath, as he makes his way down the corridor.

Once Lee has gone, Kazuya returns to sit in front of the candle, steadying his breath and focusing on the flickering of the tiny flame, shrinking gradually, then extinguishing in the pool of molten wax, plunging the room into darkness.


	5. What do you want from me?

**What do you want from me?**

"He is as granite. I have not encountered such a man before," my voice washes through the darkness, receiving no response from the man that sits before me. He remains focussed upon the candle, although it no longer burns. I study him again, through the blackness, and feel my one-time ally, my other half, my opposite and equal, returning the scrutiny. I see how he grasps at his host, digging claws deep into the heart of his soul, but I can see that he will never truly possess that which he so desires. After all, how could anyone hold an ocean in their hands? His hostility burns at me across the boards of the floor, invisible in the pitch black, but my mind can see the fiery tendrils of anger snaking towards me, and I gaze challengingly where the eye of my nemesis rests at the centre of the tortured man's brow. He whispers through the man's thoughts, reassuring, boasting, and all the while trying to infuse him with the same animosity he feels for me, but the man has none left to give.

He lifts his eyes to meet mine, seeing without seeing, in the dark. "You believe I cannot defeat him," his voice rumbles across the room to meet me, a barely audible whisper, yet crushingly loud in the stillness of the dojo. The demon stirs, shifting inside him, hissing its discontent, blaming me for his inability to control his host's heart.

No smile graces my lips when I see that I unsettle him in this manner. Only pain pierces me, that I should have become an object of such hatred to one I had held so close. I focus myself upon the man, but the swirling blackness of emotion within him shines to me like a diamond in the sunlight, and for an instant I can understand why my brother would seek to immerse himself in such a pool. I direct my sight instead to the rafters, following the tiny effervescence of life of the arachnid that dwells there in the shadows. "Life is such a beautiful thing, so fragile. That you would give up the chance to live briefly in the light, so that you may spend eternity in our darkness… I cannot comprehend."

I feel Kazuya's eyes still fixed upon me, feel him willing me to face him once more. His will is like that of a child begging for a mother's attention, and yet like a master's, challenging his subordinate to have courage and stand up to him. He rises to his feet, standing close to me, leaning in so that I feel his breath upon my cheek. When he speaks again, his voice is no longer a soft rumble, but an assured tide of powerful sound, clear and precise. It is a voice that compels the listener to obey. He says to me, "Though ancient, your wisdom is not infinite. All that is life is not light. You cannot change me."

Facing him, I meet his challenging eyes, feeling the unsubstantial touch of his clothing against mine in the blackness. Raising feathered wings into the air, I bring illumination to his shadowy features, so near to my own. I force the radiance of my spirit into every far reaching corner of the room, banishing the darkness and engulfing the man before me in the light of daybreak, encircling him with my shielding wings, burning my energy into him. "You, human, cannot control me," I tell him, my voice no longer the softness of a woman, but the echoing of a thousand voices of a thousand heavenly spirits, speaking from a place no mortal shall ever conceive. I hold his gaze for a moment, the black pools of his eyes the only twilight I cannot eradicate.

Retreating, I draw the light back within myself, leaving only the dancing flame of the newly lit candle to show myself to Kazuya. I turn and make my way to the door, reaching for the handle when I hear his voice. "He will bring much suffering, much pain and darkness with him. I do not demand your council; I only ask that you would offer it freely."

I pause, listening to the solemn tones with which he speaks. "We shall see," I murmur, the door closing silently behind me.

* * *

Having swept her platinum locks back into a ponytail, the young woman lifts a lipstick from the shelf below the mirror, removing the lid and inspecting the blood red of the waxy beauty product. As she raises it to her lips, watching herself do so in the glass before her, she hears the latch on the door click. Silently she replaces the makeup in her hand with the gun from her ankle holster and moves behind the bathroom door. Through the crack she watches as a large shadow stretches across the front room of her tiny apartment. The intruder moves quietly, but not unheard towards the bedroom door on the opposite side of the room. Moving around to the other side of the doorframe, the woman places her hand delicately on the door handle, pausing briefly to contemplate her choice of nail colour. 'Perhaps a French manicure would be better,' she thinks, drawing the door open noiselessly, and raising the gun towards the back of the man's head.

The intruder raises his hands without question as soon as he feels the cold metal of the barrel of the gun pressing into the back of his skull. "You're good, Miss Williams," he chuckles. Nina gives an almost invisible cringe at the sound of his brash, Californian accent. She abhors Californians, but unfortunately they have no qualms paying large sums off money to have each other 'taken care of'.

"What do you want, Travis?" she sighs, lowering the gun.

The man turns to face her, gives her the once-over, and flashes a toothy grin. "Lookin' good, babe!" He tosses his head appraisingly, his glossy dark hair shining under the electric lights. When the young assassin gives only a pointed look in response, he re-directs his eyes to the rest of the room. Uneasy with the fact that the woman still has the weapon in hand, he flaunts another, less tooth-filled smile and wanders over to the windows. "Why'd you keep the blinds closed? It's a gorgeous day outside!" he enthuses, pulling on the cord. As the blind shoots up, bright sunlight blazes into the small room.

"I like my privacy," Nina informs him, walking over to the window and gesturing across to the building opposite. A middle-aged man can be seen running on a treadmill, and at another window a pair of young boys are visible fighting over a comic book of some kind. She pulls the blind down again and turns to look directly at Travis. "I asked you a question."

"Straight to business with you…" Travis groans, reaching into his jacket. "Here, a package arrived for you. I think it's another overseas job, Japan?" Taking the package, Nina narrows her eyes at him. "I didn't read it, babe. You know I wouldn't do that," he says, reading her thoughts.

"You can show yourself out," she says, her melodic Celtic tones clipped, as she turns her back on him, heading over to her desk.

"Aite, I'll just be goin' then…" the man says, ruffling his hair awkwardly, and then making his way dejectedly out the door when she gives no further reaction.

Hearing the door click shut behind her, Nina pulls a knife from the rack and sits herself at the breakfast bar, slicing open the package and slipping the contents onto the worktop. The first thing to catch her attention is a flyer bearing the heading "Tekken" across the top in bold letters. Nina frowns to herself, 'another tournament…' She riffles through the rest of the material, finding plane tickets for that afternoon, direct to Tokyo. And of course the contract, taken out against Kazuya Mishima. A hit she had failed to make two years ago. Now she has a chance to even the score. She will not allow herself to be distracted again. She will not fail.

She picks up the tournament leaflet again, flicking through the glossy pages, passing numerous articles on the grandeur of the Mishima Zaibatsu, and on the vast sum of money being offered as a prize this time around. A little extra money would be nice too. She comes to rest on the photographs of participants from the last tournament, and of the corporate heads. There is that slimy creep, Chaolan, and beside him, shadowing the silver-haired devil completely, stands her target. She allows her eyes to linger on his image, taking in the muscular build, the costly tailoring, the sharp features, and the rich black sweep of hair rising in a peak behind his head. She studies his well-set posture, the expensive links on his cuffs, the arch of his heavy brows, and the intense black of his eyes. She recollects the powerful blows he strikes, the force of his fist hitting her chest, and the feeling of being thrown through the air by such an incredible strength…Kazuya Mishima.

She rubs the back of her neck with her long, delicate fingers, and leafs over to the next page, to meet eyes not entirely unlike her own. 'Anna.' She grinds her teeth for an instant, before catching herself and remembering the cost of her dental work. Time to pay her younger sister a visit. Getting up, she proceeds into the bedroom, taking little time to throw a few select outfits into a hold all. In the bathroom, she again lifts the lipstick to her mouth, brushing on the rich red substance. Blowing a kiss to her reflection, she turns and makes her way out of the apartment.


End file.
